His Eyes
by vr2lbast
Summary: Weiss Kreuz, several years postseries. The thoughts and memories of a young woman living in Australia as she raises her son.


His Eyes (August 2007) 

I am a lucky woman.

No one's life is perfect, but I've done well for myself. Business is booming in the shop and I can say quite honestly that it's due in part to me. I know my stuff and what I don't know, I learn quickly.

I never could have done this back home. If I worked in a bike shop at all, it would be to fetch coffee or do the books, but there is no prejudice here. I started with sales and basic repair – and knowing the books didn't hurt at all – but I'll be a certified mechanic before long. No one seems to mind that I'm a girl. If anything, it's a bit of a draw. The regulars drill me and I buy a drink for the one who trips me up. If I make it through the question period without a single mistake, they buy me lunch.

It's partly thanks to them that I'll be certified so quickly.

Once I can legally do the heavy work, they'll make me a day manager, which will be much more convenient for me. I don't mind managing the shop at night, but I have a changing lifestyle to consider and the pay is better. Better than night manager and much better than my old office job, which is a relief. Children are expensive.

Don't get me wrong, I love my son, but he was a bit of a surprise. A child was the last thing I was expecting when I moved here. My friend was good about it though, and let me put a playpen in the back room while I worked. Now that he's older, he's the darling of the shop and knows all the staff by name. He also knows most of the parts and accessories that we sell and the customers are charmed when he can lead them to what they want.

Some of them wonder if it's a good environment for him, it's such a busy place. But I remind them that he's a busy boy and if there's a problem, it's that it doesn't wear him out enough! One of the regulars, a friend of my friend, coaches junior football and offered to put him on the team. I've watched them play in the parking lot and my son takes to it well, so I think I will let him join once I'm working days and can go with him to watch and cheer him on. I have motherly fantasies of him growing up to score goal after goal, but my friend always laughs at me. "With hand-eye coordination like that," he says, "the kid will probably be a goaltender."

I tell him a mother has the right to dream. And what does he know anyway?

Of course, there is the question of the father. My friend and the rest of the shop staff say nothing – that is, they don't avoid the topic if it comes up in conversation, but don't ask awkward questions either. My son is another matter entirely. He sees families and wants to know why he doesn't have a daddy. I tell him the truth: that his mommy had to leave before he was born and his daddy had to stay behind.

That was enough for a child of three and he decided that his daddy was a knight, a fierce defender slaying the dragons of his homeland until it was safe for his son's return. At four, he decided these things were too fanciful and pictured his father as a famous stunt rider or football star, a man under the media's watchful eye, waiting to gather a fortune so he can step from the public eye and call his family home. Now he's five and his questions are more precise.

"Does Daddy look like me?"

Yes, my love. You are alike.

"Is he strong?"

Yes, my darling. The strongest in the world.

"Does he ride a bike like you?

Yes, my precious. He rides.

"Does he love me?"

If he could see you, he would love you with all of his heart.

My son has never taken the next step, has never asked me if his daddy will ever come home. He's aware, I think, that his father doesn't know he exists, although we've never talked about it. I didn't know I was pregnant until I moved here and then I wasn't sure that I should tell him. In the end, I bought an international phone card and called the shop where he worked. I was in my eighth month and had already decided that I would make it on my own, but I felt he should know. I was surprised when a young woman answered and nearly hung up, but I gathered my courage and asked for him.

"There is no one here by that name," she said. The silence that followed was hesitant, as if she had something more to say.

I wanted to thank her and disconnect as quickly as possible, but my mouth went dry and I couldn't speak. I could only cling to the receiver and pray for my voice to return. Then she spoke again.

"Are you searching too?"

I had no reason to trust her, but the longing in her voice drew the truth from me in a torrent. She replied that she was looking for her brother, who had once worked in the shop and who had gone away under mysterious circumstances. She thought they might have worked together at one time and might be working together still. If nothing else, one might know the location of the other.

We exchanged information and I wished her luck. I do hope she finds her brother and if she or he has any information for me, I'll follow where it leads, but I don't think I'll search any more on my own. I know in my heart that there was more to that shop than flowers, even if I will never know what it was, and I don't believe that either of them will ever be found. I will be content with what I have: my freedom, my job, and the most beautiful child in the world.

I only wish that I had more information to give him. One day he will be old enough, but right now he's only five. I can't tell him that I only knew his father a short time, but in that time he made me feel safer, freer, and more beautiful than I ever have before. I can't explain that he was the sweetest, saddest, kindest man that I have ever met, that he made the world warmer and brighter, that he taught me the names of all the flowers that fill our apartment, and that there was something dark and frightening underneath it all that I would have faced, if he had let me.

I think he saved my life the night before he broke my heart, but I will never be sure, and I hate him for that, almost as much as I love him. I wonder if he's all right, if he still looks haunted in the lonely hours of the night, and whether there's someone there to make him smile when he sees nothing but darkness.

No, a child of five could never understand these things. So when my son turns to me and asks if his father is a good person, I always say yes.

How could I I can't look into his eyes and tell him I don't know?

–End–


End file.
